


Stitches

by Merkwerkee



Series: Being Bruno Hamilton [11]
Category: Masters of the Metaverse
Genre: Whumptober 2019, during his time in the Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:55:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22855084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merkwerkee/pseuds/Merkwerkee
Summary: Some things you have to do yourself, and sometimes that really sucks. Also, don't run with scissors.
Series: Being Bruno Hamilton [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643020





	Stitches

Bruno snorted forcefully as he fumbled with the hem of his shirt.

Half a day’s hike from extraction, and they just had to run across a patrol right where they shouldn’t be. The only bridge for nearly twenty miles over a jagged scar of a gorge, and the patrol right on top of it and looking in no hurry to move any time soon.

Stuck between a rock and a hard place, Tunstall had given them the order to engage.

Weber managed to get one of them before they knew he was there, but the other six wasted no time in leaping into the fray when their comrade took the final tumble. The first man unwisely chose to try and grapple with Bruno head-on, and received a kick to the diaphragm for his troubles. He dropped, wheezing, and the second guy tried his luck by jumping on Bruno’s back and clinging around his neck while guy number three went low with a knife; apparently they thought the biggest guy equaled the biggest threat, and while they weren’t entirely wrong Bruno was far from the only one they had to worry about. Bruno kicked guy number three in the face and a nasty crunch signaled the end of number three’s participation in life.

Numbers four, five, and six had their own troubles to deal with. Mindful of how sound carried, nobody on the team was using a gun - not that it materially affected their prowess. Graves had guy number four by the shirt and was apparently engaged in punching the guy until he couldn’t stand up straight anymore; Tunstall already had guy number five on the ground in a spreading pool of what probably wasn’t strawberry syrup, while Weber was playing a weird cat and mouse knife game with guy six.

Man number two was dedicated to trying to strangle Bruno to death, and Bruno was starting to get light-headed. Still, he was almost a foot taller and had almost a hundred pounds on the guy, so he did what seemed like the most logical thing to do at the time, and threw himself over backward. Taken by surprise, the smaller man had no chance to escape and Bruno landed on him _very_ heavily. A gasping wheeze was followed by the arms around his neck loosening and Bruno rolled out of the now-slack grip and back to his feet.

Graves had dropped his guy - there wasn’t much face left, and Bruno suspected there wasn’t any breath either - and as Bruno rose he ambled over to kick number two in the head hard enough to leave said head at a funny angle, and Bruno nodded at him. Tunstall had apparently gotten tired of waiting for Weber and had stabbed guy six in the neck; a blood-covered Weber was complaining about either the mess or the fact that Tunstall had taken all the fun out of it, it was hard to tell.

Bruno sighed as he wiped his blade on the uniform of one of the dead men. Weber was a weird one in close combat, but in a firefight his aim was steady and he never shirked a dirty job. Bruno had straightened and hissed as pain streaked up and down his side, and the fingers he’d gingerly patted the area with had come away bloody. Seems the fucker with the knife had been faster than Bruno had originally given him credit for.

Which lead to his current predicament.

Bruno finally managed to get the shirt off, and just above his hip was a gash nearly three inches long. Graves hissed in sympathy, but Tunstall and Weber were too preoccupied with their argument to notice. It bled sluggishly, and Bruno cursed fluently in Cantonese to Graves’ raised eyebrows. He’d have to stitch the damn thing now or risk bleeding out before he could reach professional help; he was the only one in the squad who could sew worth a damn in skin.

With fingers that only trembled slightly, he yanked the medical kit from his pack and flicked it open to the needle and thread he’d taken to adding to the standard issue kit. Gritting his teeth, he flushed the wound as best he could and pulled one of the pre-threaded needles from the pack. The feeling of the needle sliding through flesh was as unpleasant as he remembered, and the thread that followed it moreso, but the prospect of bleeding out was even less appealing. A gentle tug pulled the edges of the wound shut and he tied off the first stitch.

Only five more to go.

Lucky him.


End file.
